


Small Print 5: In the Flesh

by TheFierceBeast



Series: Small Print [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Blood Kink, Crobby - Freeform, Demon Deals, Denial, Desperation, Exhibitionism, Filming, Humiliation kink, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Nude Photos, Repression, Series, Shame kink, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, Writing on Skin, Writing on the Body, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21862411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: Bobby does some investigating to try and remember what happened to him in Hell.
Relationships: Crowley/Bobby Singer
Series: Small Print [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/822117
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	Small Print 5: In the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning: this is more about repression than it is about non- or dub-con, but if that’s a trigger for you, then proceed with caution.

_You belong to Hell_. The idea of it has insinuated into Bobby's subconscious until he can't sleep, can't work, can't _think_ for fixating over it. How that thing had _known_, like it could smell Hell on him, or read it scrawled across his hide clear as a goddamn tattoo.  
He doesn't do well being idle over a problem. So he hits the books.  
  
It quickly becomes an obsession - taking demon books to bed and thumbing through the pages, wondering if Crowley can sense it somehow, can feel Bobby's proximity to this dark subject matter. It's stupid. _He's_ stupid, unable to hold another thought for more than five minutes without his attention slipping back to what he's discovering, the picture that's slowing becoming clearer. That Crowley literally marked him somehow.  
  
When he discovers the spell, he's almost too afraid of what he might find to even attempt it.  
It's lunar-dependant. He has to wait for a full moon: something about revelation, so he has over a week to second-guess himself. By the time he's reciting the incantation over smoking incense in a meticulously traced clay circle, he's practically shaking with nerves.

The incense burning in the bowl before him sizzles and pops, a noise that sounds too loud simply for burning herbs. It’s weirdly hypnotic, almost musical, and maybe he should have allowed more ventilation down here in the basement, because Bobby is starting to feel a little light-headed, his vision swimming enough that either he’s starting to hallucinate mildly or the smoke spilling out of the bowl is taking on a pink tinge, the flickering candle flame next to it starting to glow purplish. "Hold up, what's he mean 'protecting his investment?'” Bobby mutters, to nobody but himself. He rubs a palm briskly across the opposite wrist: his skin is beginning to tingle, like the prickle of static electricity, or the feeling just before a ghost shows; it’s not a pleasant sensation. “Since when do demons care if someone dies before their time is up and arrive early in Hell?"

He doesn’t have much time to consider the question. When it finally appears, that red scrawl unrolling across his skin like fever in fast-forward, it's more grotesque than Bobby had been imagining from his half-remembered dreams. Bloody, as if newly cut and _this is Crowley's handwriting_, his brain helpfully supplies. Impossibly neat, given the medium. Personal, someone’s handwriting. Unique. Like a part of them. Bobby touches it with the tips of his fingers and it _writhes_. "Fuck." He rarely cusses like that, not even when he's alone as he is now, but it punches out of him like a groan. The writing _itches_. An itch in his veins, craving friction, any kind of touch at all. He looks at his fingertips. No blood; not wet. The script glistens, gory, contradicting the fact.   
  
Before he can stop to think too hard about it he's tearing off his shirt, exposing his torso (hairy, a little soft around the belly) and running his fingers along the lines that have been on his body for... how long now? He doesn't know what they say, but he sure as eggs knows what they mean. They read like an accusation: _you accepted this_. You invited it in. His own eyes are frightening. Wide and wild in the mirror. Frightening, and frightened. He knows he's going to look: his hands hover, hesitate, at the waistband of his jeans. Perhaps it's a hunter thing: you live your life like a horror movie for so long that in the end the horror becomes, if not a comfort, then a foregone conclusion. A proof that you're right about the wrong. Or maybe you have to be a little sick to start with, to become a hunter. Maybe all of us, just a little, want to invite it inside.  
  
Screwing up his courage, he shoves his jeans down in a rush. If anyone walked in right now they'd get an eyeful - not that anyone'd be able to get past the wards he's got protecting the place. Fascinated, as if his body belongs to someone else, he examines his own skin. The intricacy, the delicacy, of the markings feels ridiculous on his big, burly body - as if he'd put on lacy lingerie. The thought is unnerving. The markings extend further. Beneath his underwear. Bobby's hands shake. His mouth feels suddenly dry and he's very aware of his own pulse. "Ah... C'mon..." He can't contain his quiet noise of dismay, closes his eyes and swallows hard, fighting the feeling of rising panic as he slips his shorts down over his hips and steps out of them. He knew what he was going to find, but it's still a jolt: that same dripping, burning script etched across the most intimate parts of him.  
At least it doesn't hurt. Bobby still winces when he presses it just to check, the crawling of the script matching the crawling heat that climbs his skin at the brush of his fingertips.   
It _looks_ like it should hurt. He can't stop touching it, like picking at a half healed scab. His dick is, horrifyingly, starting to pay attention, firming up under the bloody red cuts. He’s not entirely sure how long the spell will last - just until the candle burns out. He should photograph it, he thinks, somewhat hysterically. For- for studying later.

His hand is still rubbing his inner thigh, back and forth, slow and lazy like he's petting a cat. Something in him feels like it half-remembers a touch like that from some time before, sometime that's locked away in his memory. The thought suddenly grips him: what if Crowley were to drop in right now, in that way he has? To see him naked and half-hard, covered in Crowley's seal of ownership like a branded steer? The thought, to Bobby's horror and lack of surprise, makes his dick fill enough that's he's fully hard now, the spell pulsing along his length like it approves.   
He twists in front of the mirror, hypnotised. The writing is everywhere. Covering him complete as a shroud. Between his fingers, between his toes. His balls – he cups them carefully, raises one leg to rest a foot on the chair and look - his taint. Between his ass-cheeks, even, and now he can't arrest the thought before it clutches him: of Crowley spreading him in order to mark him up, and the feeling of hot humiliation is addictive, shamefully delicious.  
  
He wonders if it hurt. How much it hurt. He thinks maybe... maybe a lot. Which should be a lot more disturbing a thought than it is. He's hot all over. He tells himself it's anger - that Crowley did this, violated him like this, hurt him, marked him. And that he can't remember it. It's anger that's making his hands shake like this, just anger. So much so that when he finally picks up his camera, he can't hold it steady enough at first to take any pictures. 

The wooden seat of the chair he sags down onto feels too cold against his bare thighs. He exhales, slowly. Presses his thumbs against his closed eyelids and wills himself to calm. Relax, focus. He needs to document the text now, before the candle burns down and he has to wait another month to try again. If it can even be photographed... He aims and snaps, an innocuous patch of leg. Exhales in relief when the etched letters show up, blurry but definitely there, on the digital image. Braces himself to stand and concentrate and try again, awkward angles and all.  
  
These are some weird and embarrassingly pornographic selfies he's taking right now. He tries to be clinical about it, to capture enough of the text that he'll have a fighting chance of translating it later when he’s had a chance to process and calm. He snaps shots of leg, hip, chest, even the inside of his mouth, his eyelids, _Jesus_. He feels the camera's eyes on his like a witness, and he thinks again about Crowley seeing him like this. The realisation hits him that he_ already has_, only Bobby doesn't remember it.

Checking each image for clarity has him blushing furiously, his belly in knots. He's never been the type to take photos in the bedroom. Hell, he's never seen a photo of himself naked before, yet here he is, in all his glory, with a boner that just _will not_ quit. He's never seen his body in this way before. From every angle, like a stranger looking in. Maybe one day this will be funny, except he really doesn't think so. He'd damn Crowley right outta Hell and back again, if only he wasn't trying desperately to avoid thinking of him. Because Bobby knows that demons ain't angels and they can't hear thoughts like prayers, but is vaguely afraid that he'll somehow summon the bastard with the strength of his imagination anyway.  
  
He doesn't know why the thought even occurs to him, let alone settles in his brain like a bad song and won't leave him alone, but he finds himself flicking the camera onto the video mode. He presses play and sets it down so it can see him. He looks at his own reflection in the mirror, then back to the camera. He feels watched from every angle. Slow, almost shy, he puts his hand on his dick, shudders at the touch. His reflection in the mirror glances at him slyly: he can barely hold his own gaze, here, alone. Has he always looked like this? Thick-set and masculine, quietly powerful? Is this how others see him? How _Crowley_ sees him? He pushes the thought away. How has he never _looked_ at himself before? His hand starts to move, like he's possessed. The way that the script writhes ecstatically, it's easy to pretend he is, that this behaviour is all solely due to Crowley's influence, tearing through his veins, inhabiting him. He arches his back like some pin-up girl, and feels simultaneously faintly foolish and sinful as heck. One hand slides down his chest as the other jerks his dick steadily. He wants to pretend it's someone else's hands on him. Someone dangerous. But he doesn't want to close his eyes.

It's just cataloguing the text, right? He turns, slowly. Gives the camera a good pan shot. Spread his legs wider and bends a little at the waist, displaying what’s hidden. Who the Hell does he think he's fooling? Documenting the text, while he's spankin' the monkey - well, screw it. He's all alone. He'll just delete the video once he's scratched this damn incessant itch. For all he knows, it’s a common side-effect of… whatever the Hell this is. Pinching a nipple, he bites his lip to stifle the soft, urgent noises he's making. Traces the throbbing lines along his length with his thumb, groaning as he presses against his slit. He’s slick, wet and it isn’t blood. He can’t remember the last time he was this worked up. This _desperate_. His vision is still kinda blurry, the room choked with smoke, heavy and fragrant. Through it, the recording light of the camera blinks, like a glowing red eye, watching, _watching_ and _remembering_. This is what this is about, he tries to remind himself, _remembering_. This is business, survival, _Crowley_ has made him do this – his breath is coming faster now, his reflection in the mirror shows his chest, broad, heaving, nipples hard and over-sensitive – and _Crowley_… don’t think about Crowley. Don’t think about Crowley forcing you to strip and display yourself, to jerk your hard, needy dick while he watches you silently from the dark – Bobby’s breath catches, his whole body stiffening as he comes sudden and shuddering, hand helplessly working himself through it, what feels like long minutes, until he’s panting and spent.

Reality hits like a bucket of cold water, even though there’s still a stump of candle flickering and his bloody mantle of script is just as visible as it was a moment ago. He feels flustered – adrift, now the consuming, compelling need to just get off has been attended to. “Ah… balls.” Juggling the camera, he struggles to turn it off, quick, forgetting for a second that his hand is covered in jizz. He sets the camera down hurriedly on the chair, facing away from him, until he recovers enough presence of mind to switch it off.

On the floor behind him, the candle flame gutters and goes out. The room feels suddenly much colder: glancing down, Bobby expects to see the script disappear, but it’s already gone. He didn’t feel it. Doesn’t even feel its absence really, just a hollow kind of normality. Shivering, he self-consciously reaches for his clothes, wiping his hands on his undershirt, then pulling on his underwear and jeans and buttoning his flannel quickly.

His fingertips hover over the buttons on the camera, but he can’t quite bring himself to press any – not play, but not delete, either. Unease is lurking, the monster just out of line of sight. But for some reason, he can’t bring himself to regret this quite yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to anyone still reading, special love to the commenters, and sorry it's taken so long to get this up (name of my sex tape!) It will get finished eventually! (name of my sex tape vol 2!) xx


End file.
